what if with our first clot of air when we are born we inhale a soul, and every time we breathe out, we squeeze a tiny part of our souls out. would our final breath actually be the very last soul fragment leaving our bodies?
Woah woah wait
you know those things that say “you become like the 5 people you hang out with the most”
that would explain why, because you would actually be inhaling little parts of them over time
Oh my god
．. ☆ SPACE————. ＋.。 . ． . . ． 。 ﾟ。, ☆ ﾟ. ＋ 。 ﾟ ,。 . 。 , .。ﾟ . ＋.。 . ． . O. ． 。 ﾟ。, ’☆ ﾟ. ＋ 。 ﾟ ,。 . 。 , .。ﾟ 。 ﾟ . +。。 ﾟ . +。 ﾟ * 。. , 。ﾟ +. 。*。 ﾟ. . .O ． …, 。.*＋.。 . ． . . ． 。 ﾟ。, ☆ ﾟ. ＋ 。 ﾟ ,。 . 。 , .。ﾟ 。 ﾟ . +。＋ ﾟ 。 。ﾟTHE FINAL FRONTIER——- . ﾟ。, ☆ * 。ﾟ. o, 。 *. ＋ ﾟ 。 。ﾟ . ﾟ。, ☆ * 。O.。ﾟ +. 。*。 ﾟ. . . ． …, 。-.*＋.。 . ． . . ． 。 ﾟ。, ☆ ﾟ. ＋ 。 ﾟ ,。 . 。 , .。ﾟ 。 ﾟ . +。＋ ﾟ。ﾟ +. 。*。 ﾟ. . . ． …, 。.*＋.。 . ． **. . ． 。 ﾟ。, ☆ ﾟ. !＋ 。 ﾟ ’ ,。 . 。 , .。ﾟ 。 ﾟ . +。＋ ﾟ。ﾟ +. 。*。 ﾟ. . . ． …, 。.*＋.。 . ． . . o． 。 ﾟ。, ☆ ﾟ. o＋’ 。THESE ARE THE VOYAGES OF THE USS ENTERPRISE—- ﾟ ,。 . +。 , .。ﾟ 。 ﾟ。ﾟ +. 。*。 ﾟ. . . ． …, 。.*＋.。 . * ． . .. ITS FIVE-YEAR MISSION: . . ． 。 ﾟ。, ☆ ﾟ. ＋ 。 ﾟ ,。 . 。 , .。ﾟ . ＋.。 . ． . O. ． 。 ﾟ。, ’☆ ﾟ. ＋ 。 ﾟ ,。 . 。 , .。ﾟ 。 ﾟ . +。。 ﾟ . +。 ﾟ * 。. , 。ﾟ +. 。*。 ﾟ. TO EXPLORE STRANGE NEW WORLDS, . . ． 。 ﾟ。, ☆ ﾟ. 。 ﾟ ,。 . 。 , .。ﾟ . ＋* .。 . ． . O. ． 。* ﾟ。, ’☆ ﾟ. ＋ 。 ﾟ ,。 . 。 , .。ﾟ 。 ..*. +。。 ﾟ . +。 ﾟ * 。. , 。ﾟ +. 。*。 ﾟ.TO SEEK OUT NEW LIFE AND NEW CIVILIZATIONS,. . ． 。 ﾟ。, ☆ ﾟ. ＋ 。 ﾟ ,。 . 。 , .。ﾟ . ＋.。 . ． . O. ． 。 ﾟ。, ’☆ ﾟ. ＋ 。 ﾟ ,。 . 。 , .。ﾟ 。 ﾟ . +。。 ﾟ . +。 ﾟ * 。. , 。ﾟ +. 。*。 ﾟAND TO BOLDLY GO WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE BEFORE． 。 ﾟ。, ☆ ﾟ. ＋ 。 ﾟ ,。 . 。 , .。ﾟ 。 ﾟ . +。＋ ﾟ。ﾟ +. 。*。 ﾟ. . . ． …, 。.*＋.。 . ． .++ . ． 。 ﾟ。, ☆ ﾟ….. ＋ 。 ﾟ ,。 . 。 , ’.。ﾟ0.. 。 ﾟ . +。＋ ﾟ*
au meme → sherlock learnt to play piano as a child
(the song i imagine him playing [x])
As far as he can remember, Sherlock hasn’t sat on a piano’s bench for over ten years.
Since he left uni he hasn’t had access to a piano; the one he used to play was old but in good shape, always tuned and well maintained. It belonged to the university, of course, so when it was his time to leave, he had to leave it as well. Parting wasn’t as bittersweet as he imagined - leaving behind his violin, his instrument of preference, would have been more difficult than the piano. Still, to leave to live somewhere without a piano meant to go without playing one.
Ten years, and he’s seen plenty of pianos in houses of victims or suspects, but none as alluring as the one catching his attention from the corner of the room.
They were a rich family - the Hodgins’s, or something similar. Large estate, very clearly expensive, all five of them found dead in their respective rooms. Yes, a pity, such lovely people, so generous too - what was that about internal decapitation? Yes, plans will have to be made.
He and John have just been allowed access to the rest of the house, having previously only been allowed in the rooms of the victims and a few extraneous corridors that were required to gain access to said rooms. Fifteen minutes, Lestrade said, and Sherlock has at least thirteen to spare if he wants to finish on time.
Strolling across the room and making himself look busy - pressing a fingertip to the corner of a desk and lifting couch skirts with the toe of his shoe - Sherlock makes his way up to the piano. A rich family, indeed; it’s a Steinway & Sons grand, finished and polished and sparkling - no dust, music folders tucked away neatly, comfortable-looking bench. Sherlock runs a gloved finger over the surface like there’s evidence somewhere here, but all he can gather from it is that the daughter was a musician; there’d been a clarinet case in her room, but nothing of the sort in her brother’s.
Glancing over his shoulder at John, Sherlock allows himself to sidle onto the bench. The piano won’t lead him anywhere, he’s positive, so he removes his gloves and sets them aside, gently settling his fingertips against the immaculately clean keys.
The feeling in his chest is tugging and urging, fingers lifting and then falling again. He hasn’t played for ten years and he has no idea why he wants to now, but with a straightening of his posture, his hands begin of their own accord and start a melody that grows from the back of his mind.
Across the room, John stops his search through an oversized bookshelf and looks behind him at Sherlock. The song drifting and reverberating through the sparsely filled lounge is soft and almost hesitant, high and repetitive, and oh, it’s Sherlock. Sherlock plays piano.
John turns around and takes a quiet step forward, careful not to allow his shoes to echo on the hardwood floor. The melody grows and finally begins mixing in some lower register notes, and John feels a soaring sensation in his chest. He’s never heard Sherlock play something as gentle as this on his violin - the violin is his outlet, normally for anger, but this. Well, it’s music.
Head tilted in something akin to concentration, Sherlock’s hands almost float over the keys with how quickly and gently they travel. He’s enveloped - can’t even tell that John is practically just behind him as he plays. He knows that he has a time limit and that when this is finished he’ll only have three minutes left, but he’s already started, and now cannot stop.
He remembers his mother beginning to teach him this before she got sick; he kept the sheet music after she died, memorised it. His father used to have him play, sometimes, before he went away for secondary school. It’s coming to him easily, still stuffed away in nooks and crannies he never cleans out. His fingers sometimes hesitate, but he never falters. John doesn’t even seem to be able to drop his jaw in amazement. He just gazes at the man in awe.
As the melody begins to taper off and Sherlock’s hands come to a stop, John works his jaw for a moment before simply stating, “You never told me you could play.”
Sherlock smirks at the piano’s keys and absently plays a few chords. “You never asked.”
John is the new flying instructor and Quidditch referee, who retired from his professional Quidditch career after some kind of accident
Lestrade is the Transfiguration teacher
Molly is a nurse
Jim teaches Potions
Anderson and Donovan are the annoying as fuck prefects
Mycroft holds a minor position in the Ministry of Magic
Boom. Someone fic this.
It seemed to be some sort of tradition that Hogwarts had to have at least one professor no one could stand. Before, when Harry Potter was around, it was the infamous Professor Snape. After that, there had been an Arithmancy professor named Wiggins who was so unbearable that most students blocked him out of their memories completely. Now there was Holmes.
He wasn’t so bad - at least according to the girls who sighed and fawned over him. And some of the boys. Certainly enough, Holmes was good looking, but that seemed to be a running trend among the staff lately. Professor Lestrade, in Transfiguration, couldn’t go more than an afternoon without a student coming in for extra practice, usually with form. Professor Watson, who doubled as flying instructor and the dueling team’s coach, had more broomstick and wand jokes aimed at him than anyone cared to hear in a lifetime. But he had an easygoing personality that made him easy to joke around with. Even the teensy-bit unbalanced potions master, Professor Moriarty, had a sort of deranged charm to him, and Nurse Molly was sweet and remembered all her patients’ names.
There was no longer a curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, but after the first week with Holmes, most students wished it would come back. He showed up five minutes late for the first lesson and then burst in with a swish of his trailing cloak, mouth going at a thousand miles a minute.
“Wands out, everyone, and you’d better behave responsibly if you’ve been trusted with them for three years. That means no poking, no unauthorized spells, and no being idiots, understand? Most professors like to say there’s no such thing as a stupid question - I disagree; there are a lot of stupid questions, especially if you don’t listen. Take every word I say as gospel and don’t fall asleep or I’ll throw the nearest projectile, and don’t think I’ll pity you if you can’t deflect it in time. There will be no skiving off, because I’ll know if you’re lying, and random pop quizzes through the term. We’ll start with Shield Charms, something even the most inadequate first-years can grasp, shall we?”
Even if he hadn’t talked to them like babies at the end, everyone hated him.
Holmes was never happy with anyone, never smiled, and never gave praise, even if a student did something truly brilliant and inspired with his lessons. The closest he would get at complimenting someone was to lean back in his chair, feet on the desk, and say, “You could have done worse, I suppose. At least you didn’t kill me.” He only ever looked interested when a student lipped off in class or Professor Lestrade showed up for a word.
That was another funny thing about Professor Holmes. He liked mysteries, but not in the way that most people liked mysteries. He solved them, even mundane ones like missing magical creatures that escaped into the forest, or students who cheated on their exams. Professor Lestrade seemed to have a lot of trouble with cheaters, and Holmes always found them, which only made the student body resent him even further.
His pursuits brought him to dueling club practice one day, where for the first time he met Professor Watson. The moment he entered the practice room a hush fell over the students, causing Watson to look up in alarm; they all knew that one of their number was going to get in big trouble.
“So, the best technique would be to - guys?” asked Watson, turning to see Holmes in the door. His eyebrows rose. “Oh, Professor Holmes, what a pleasant surprise. Are you here for a lesson?”
There were scattered giggles around the room as Holmes scowled. By then it was common knowledge that, though he was a genius in almost every other respect, Holmes was a terrible duelist. “Actually, I was going to correct your form,” he retorted.
Hushed “Ooooh”s spread across the room. Watson smirked slightly. “Really? And what’s wrong with it?”
“It’s - ah - crooked.”
More giggles. “Perhaps it could be more improved if you didn’t have a psychosomatic limp.”
“You heard me loud and clear. Your limp is psychosomatic. It’s all in your head.”
“And what does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing, really. But I bet you ten Galleons I can fix it.”
Watson dodged immediately away and shot back a spell of his own. They weren’t even on the dueling tarmac, and students had to quickly back away against the walls as the fight very quickly got messy. Holmes either didn’t know the rules of dueling or disregarded them completely, amplifying his voice and shrieking or shooting off blinding sparks to disorient Watson before shooting a curse. Though even then Professor Watson managed to keep the fight even.
With an almost lazy flick of his wand the spells momentarily stopped flying, and Watson snapped, “This isn’t exactly a fair fight, Professor.”
The taller man grinned. “Oh, come on, Professor, even your Muggle sister could do better after indulging her alcoholism.”
Watson dropped his wand and charged at him. For a moment Holmes’ eyes widened with pure panic before immobilizing Watson with a leg-locker jinx. He knelt at his colleague’s side, handing back his wand. “I told you it was in your head,” he smirked before getting up again to point at Miranda Hodgins. “You. With me to the Headmaster’s office, now.”
He swept out, with Miranda timidly following and the remaining students in awe. Watson reversed the jinx and gaped after Holmes while absently stretching his leg. Holmes was right; he hadn’t limped at all during the fight.
Most students thought the professors would hate one another on principle after that incident, and were taken by surprise when the pair were practically inseparable from that moment on.
I love you so much…^
I feel the feels in my stomach, ugh the last one I can’t. Why is there water coming out of my eyes, nope. What.
The last one OMG I can’t asdfghjkl why are David Tennant and Billie Piper not together why
Imagine that you’re awkwardly sitting there at a formal dance when suddenly you see a hand extended towards you. ”May I have this dance?” they ask. You look up, and find that it’s your favorite character.
Imagine that favorite character then fucking you so hard that night that you don’t think you’ll be able to stand the next morning.